Czytaj książkę: «Mischief in Regency Society: To Catch a Rogue»

To Laura Kay Gauldin,

who has been brave enough to be my friend since we were

teenagers! If not for the three Gauldin sisters there

never could have been three Chase sisters.

Prologue

“Where’er we tread ’tis haunted, holy ground;

No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould

But one vast plain of wonder spreads around,

And all the Muses’ tales seem truly told

Till the sense aches with gazing to behold

The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon…

Lord Byron

Never had a night been as dark as this one.

The moon was a mere sliver high over the crooked rooftops of London, nearly obscured by scudding clouds. There were no stars at all, not even a tiny, bead-like sparkle, and an infamous London fog was creeping inward over the sluggish Thames. Heavy and greasy, a noxious grey-green, it would soon blanket the city, cutting off even the dull shimmer of that tiny moon.

But all the guests at the Marchioness of Tenbray’s ball—and that was nearly everyone in the ton who mattered at all—cared not a whit for the ominous night outside the brilliantly lit mansion. They were far too busy moving through the crush of the ballroom, laughing, dancing, trading the latest on dits behind silken fans, drinking champagne, stealing kisses under concealment of the terrace’s potted palms. All the world seemed compressed into this one marble-and-gilt room, a swirl of music and chatter and clinking crystal rising up and up with no care for the dark chill outside.

Not one of them—not even the marchioness herself, deeply preoccupied by a sudden shortage of lobster tarts—noticed a window in the library sliding silently open.

Someone else was taking full advantage of the darkness, and not for surreptitious caresses on the terrace. No, this person had something far more important, far more devious, in mind.

As the window swung all the way open, this person, tall and slim, muffled and masked all in black, climbed inside and hopped lightly to the Aubusson carpet laid over polished parquet. The figure made no sound, as soft as cat’s paws on the silken weave. It went automatically down into a low crouch, breath held as bright eyes, revealed through the slits of the satin mask, darted from left to right. The library, as expected, was deserted, lit by only one small Colza lamp on the polished desk. It cast a circle of golden glow, flickering, sweetly scented, and all the far corners were deep in gloom. Bookshelves rose to the ceiling, crowded with leather-bound volumes that looked scarcely touched, let alone read and loved.

Well, thought the intruder. Old Lady Tenbray is scarcely renowned for her brains, is she?

Yet the late Lord Tenbray had been renowned for his passion for Italian antiquities, and this was what drew the black-clad figure’s interest. Once assured of being alone, the intruder rose from that crouch and moved stealthily across the room. The shadows were no deterrent—the library’s layout had been carefully studied, every chair and table mapped. This person knew what they sought.

At the far end of the space, on either side of the carved fireplace, were glass-topped cases, each one filled to the brim with the marquess’s ill-gotten gains. In his youth, long ago, he had served as a diplomat to the kingdom of Naples. From there, he sent home crates full of statuary, jewellery, frescoes, vases. Only a small part of the collection resided in this library.

The very best part.

“Ah, yes,” the intruder whispered. “There you are.”

From a pocket tied around the waist came a thin piece of metal, which was carefully inserted into the case’s lock. One upward twist, and the mechanism popped free.

“Lax, lax,” the person murmured, lifting up the lid. Really, people who could not take care of their possessions did not deserve them.

The object of desire lay in the very centre of the display, an Etruscan diadem of gold hammered very thin and formed into the shape of delicate leaves and vines. Once, it had graced the head of a queen. Now it satisfied an old Englishwoman’s vanity.

But not for long.

The figure reached for it with black-gloved hands. Even in the shadows the diadem glowed like the Italian sky, so light and perfect. It seemed so fragile, yet had survived so much for these thousands of years.

“You will soon be safe,” came the reassuring whisper, as the diadem disappeared into the pocket.

As its glow vanished, there was a loud thump outside the library door. The figure’s masked head whipped around, eyes wide, heart pounding.

“No, Agnes, we shouldn’t!” a man groaned, his words slurred, overly loud in the quiet room.

“Oh, but we really must!” a woman answered. “We haven’t got very long. My husband will soon leave the card room and be looking for me.”

There was another thump, then a click of the door handle as someone, either Agnes or her drunken companion, groped for the entrance.

Time to be gone. One more object emerged from that pocket, a perfect white lily that was carefully placed in the diadem’s abandoned spot. Then the figure sprinted lightly across the floor, jumping up on to the window ledge. Just as the door flew open, the thief was gone, disappearing into the gloomy night.

The Lily Thief had struck again.

Chapter One

“I call this meeting of the Ladies Artistic Society to order,” announced Calliope Chase, sounding her gavel on the table in front of her. “Our secretary, Miss Clio Chase, will take the minutes.”

Slowly, all the teacups and plates of cakes were lowered to laps and tabletops, and the members of the Society turned their attention to their founder and president. Bright sunlight flowed from the tall windows of the drawing room of the Chases’ townhouse, warm and bright after the chilly misery of the night before, casting pastel spencers and muslin gowns in a brilliant light. Everything in the fashionably appointed room was just as expected—the ladies seated in pretty groupings of chairs and settees, china tea sets, silver services, hovering housemaids, the soft sound of Mozart from the pianoforte in the corner.

All expected and proper. Except for one thing. Behind Calliope, set high on its pedestal, was a marble statue of Apollo. An anatomically correct, completely naked statue of Apollo.

But then, what else could be looked for in a house belonging to the famous scholar of Greek history, Sir Walter Chase? A house where his nine daughters, named after the Greek Muses, resided and pursued their own, not always completely ladylike, interests.

Calliope, the eldest of the Chase Muses at age twenty-one, was also not all that was expected. She was quite attractive, taking after her late mother’s French family with her black hair and brown eyes, her flawless fair skin; and those good looks—with the Chase fortune—had attracted more than a few offers from very eligible partis. Yet she had turned them all down. “They just don’t care about history and antiquities,” she told her father, and he immediately agreed that those young men would never do for one of the Chase Muses.

She also cared little for fashion or for dancing or cards, preferring to spend her time in study, or in conversation about her studies with like-minded people.

That was why she founded the Ladies Artistic Society in the first place, so that she and her sisters could reach out to other females with more on their minds than hemlines and hats. “Surely there must be others like us here in London,” she told her sister Clio. “You know—ladies who wish they could take books with them to pass the dull hours at Almack’s.”

And so there were. Their membership now included two of their friends, along with the three eldest Chase daughters (the other six still being in the schoolroom, and therefore members-in-waiting). There was also a waiting list, though Calliope suspected that many of those just wanted a glimpse of Apollo. They met once a week during the Season to talk about history, literature, art, music. Often a guest lecturer, provided by the Muses’ father, would speak, or a painter would give a demonstration. Sometimes they would just discuss amongst themselves a book read or an opera seen, or Thalia, the third Chase sister and an ardent musician, would perform a scandalous, passionate Beethoven piece.

Not today, though. Today there was very serious business to discuss, and obviously everyone discerned that from the stiff set of Calliope’s shoulders in her white muslin day dress. A hush fell over the bright room, all clinkings and rustlings stilled. Even Thalia ceased playing the pianoforte, swivelling around to face her sister.

Calliope lifted up a copy of the Post, pointing at a black, shrieking headline: The Lily Thief Returns!

“It has been many weeks since this criminal struck,” Calliope said softly. Her voice was quiet, but she felt her cheeks burn with the force of her inner anger. Many weeks—and she had thought the Lily Thief gone, vanished like so many other ephemeral sensations in Society. A two-day scandal, and then something else, an elopement or divorce, or other such harmless trifle. “I suppose he realised that attention was drifting from his foul deeds.”

Her sister Clio glanced up from the minutes, her auburn brow arched above the gilt frames of her spectacles. Clio said nothing, though. Merely went back to her note-taking. It was Lady Emmeline Saunders who spoke. “Perhaps the Lily Thief has very good reasons for what he does.”

“Reasons such as profit and riches?” Thalia cried from her piano. Her golden curls, so shiny and pretty, trembled with indignation. Thalia might look like a china shepherdess, but she had the heart of a gladiator. And that accounted for the many scrapes she always found herself in. “I am sure he saw a pretty penny from the sale of Lord Egermont’s Euphronios krater and the Clives’ Bastet statue.”

“Antiquities have more than a monetary value, you know,” Clio said quietly. “Something their previous owners seemed to have lost sight of.”

“Of course they do,” Calliope said. “And that is what makes the exploits of this Lily Thief so heinous. Who knows where these objects have gone, or if they will ever be seen again? We will have no access to the lessons they could teach us. It is a terrible loss to scholarship.”

Clio bent her head back over her notes, murmuring low enough for only Calliope to hear, “As if there was much scholarship going on in Lady Tenbray’s library.”

“The Lily Thief does not just steal money or jewels, as a common burglar would. Objects that could easily be replaced,” Calliope said. “He steals history.”

The other Society members glanced at each other. Finally, Emmeline raised her hand again. “What must we do about this, Calliope? Perhaps engage a don from Cambridge to speak on cultural thefts?”

“Or tomb-raiding!” cried Miss Charlotte Price, the youngest and most excitable of the Society. She had an unfortunate predilection for reading horrid novels, but her father was a friend of Sir Walter Chase. He hoped the Society would help her expand her horizons. So far the hope was in vain, but one never knew. “I did read about a cursed tomb robber in The Baron’s Revenge—”

“Yes, indeed,” Calliope said, interrupting smoothly before Lotty could be carried off into a rambling synopsis. “But I have something rather more—personal in mind.”

“Personal?” the others chorused.

“Yes.” Calliope placed her palms flat on the table before her, leaning towards her audience. “We are going to catch the Lily Thief ourselves.”

A great sigh went up, floating to the plaster-ceiling medallion in a wave of exclamation.

“Oh, how very thrilling!” trilled Charlotte. “Just like The Curse of Lady Arabella—”

“We are to turn amateur sleuths?” Thalia said, clapping her hands. “What a marvellous idea!”

“Indeed,” agreed Emmeline. “Scholastic inquiry is all very well, but sometimes we need to move.”

Clio’s pen stilled, her brows drawn down in a puzzled vee. “How do you propose we go about this task, Calliope? If even the Bow Street Runners could not find the Lily Thief…”

Honestly, Calliope had not thought quite that far ahead. The idea of taking action themselves had only occurred to her at breakfast that morning, as she read the papers in mounting anger over the harmful exploits of that show-off Lily Thief. She had some vague notion that, as ladies of the ton, they could move about more freely and with far more stealth than those Runners. They could listen and observe with no one being the wiser, and perhaps catch the villain at a vulnerable moment.

For she was sure of one thing—the Lily Thief was a member of the ton. He had to be, to possess such knowledge of the houses and schedules of lords and ladies. But she was not entirely sure how to begin catching him in their net.

“I suggest,” she said slowly, “that we begin with last night’s theft of the Etruscan diadem. Was anyone at Lady Tenbray’s rout?” Calliope herself had not been, turning down the invitation to what was sure to be a dull crush to attend the theatre with her father. Macbeth, she had thought, was sure to be more exciting. If only she had known the Lily Thief was to strike again!

Clio and Thalia were of no help, having chosen to stay home with their studies. There must have been someone there whose observations she could trust!

Finally, Emmeline raised her hand again. “I was there, but I noticed nothing untoward, I fear.”

“No one behaving oddly at all?” Calliope asked hopefully.

“Just Freddie Mountbank,” Emmeline answered. “But then, what does one expect of him? I would have been suspicious if he behaved normally.”

The ladies all giggled. Poor Mr Mountbank—he was so earnest, so very much in love with Emmeline, yet he had the unfortunate tendency to lose his temper and blurt out curses when he was nervous in a lady’s presence (which was always). He had launched more than one dance set into disarray by knocking down all the participants. Unless Mr Mountbank was very clever indeed—and, judging by his parents, that was not likely—he was not the Lily Thief.

“Nothing else?” Calliope asked.

Emmeline shook her head regretfully. “I fear not. It was so very crowded. And my mother insisted I dance with Mr Mountbank, so I was rather distracted in dodging him.”

More giggles rippled around the room, and even Calliope had to laugh at the vision of her rather tall friend ducking behind curtains and potted palms to hide from her persistent suitor.

“I’m sorry,” Emmeline said. “If I had known…”

“Yes.” Calliope sighed. “If only we all knew.”

“What shall we do now?” asked Thalia, her tone suggesting that she would prefer to armour up like a Valkyrie and go marching out into Mayfair to destroy all villains in her path.

“I am not entirely sure,” Calliope admitted. “But I think I do have an idea where the Lily Thief will strike next.”

“Really?”

“Where?”

“Oh, do tell us!”

Calliope had not completely worked out all this in her mind. Yet sometimes, she thought, intuition was the best guide. “The Duke of Averton’s ball.”

“Oh!”

“Of course.”

“The Alabaster Goddess,” Thalia said. “Lud, but that is clever of you, Cal.”

“I’m surprised the Lily Thief hasn’t made a move towards it yet,” Emmeline said.

“He is obviously growing in audacity,” Calliope said, gesturing towards the newspaper. “To snatch the diadem in plain sight indicates confidence.”

The Alabaster Goddess was a rather small, perfectly preserved statue of Artemis with her bow, taken only a few years ago from a ruined Greek temple on the island of Delos and purchased by the Duke of Averton (or Duke of Avarice, as he was known in certain circles) for his famous collection. She was quite unblemished for being thousands of years old, and the duke loved to show her off, strangely enough, for he was a well-known recluse. The goddess had even sparked quite a fashion in society for “Artemis” hairstyles and “Artemis” sandals. The duke had made it known she would soon be moved to his heavily fortified castle in Yorkshire. But next week she could be seen at a grand masked ball the duke was hosting. His first ball in years.

The ball had a Grecian theme, of course.

Yes, Calliope thought, suddenly sure. The Lily Thief would strike there.

“We must all go to the ball, and there we will—”

“Oh!” Calliope’s instructions were cut off by a sudden cry from Lotty, who sat closest to the window. She pressed her nose to the glass, leaning forward precariously. “Oh, it is Lord Westwood! And your beau Mr Mountbank, Emmeline.”

Those words, of course—Lord Westwood—caused a great rush to the windows, silks and ribbons furiously a-rustle. More noses and fingers pressed to the glass, unheeding of smudges and dignity.

“Oh!” cried Thalia. “He is in his beautiful phaeton. I wish Father would buy one for me, I’m sure I would be a rare hand at the reins. But Westwood appears to be in some sort of altercation with Mr Mountbank. How fascinating.”

Oh, what a great surprise, Calliope thought sarcastically. Where Cameron de Vere, the Earl of Westwood went, “altercations” were sure to follow.

“Cal, Clio, come, you must see this. It’s too amusing,” Thalia said.

Clio left off her scratching of pens and joined the others, peering down as if observing some scientific demonstration.

Calliope did not want to go and gawk with her friends, as if they were all silly schoolgirls who had never before seen a man rather than the intelligent, rational women they were. She did not want to give Lord Westwood the satisfaction of yet more attention. Yet, somehow, she could not help herself. It was as if a thick cord suddenly tightened around her waist, pulling her inexorably towards the window. Towards him.

Calliope dropped the newspaper and strolled reluctantly towards the others, peering past Thalia’s shoulder to the scene below. It was indeed Lord Westwood, his bright yellow and gleaming black phaeton wedged into traffic, at a complete standstill. His matched bay horses snorted and pranced restlessly, as Mr Mountbank, in his own conveyance, blocked Westwood’s way, shouting and gesticulating, as he was wont to do. Mr Mountbank’s face was an alarming shade of purple above his overly starched cravat, yet Westwood looked on with an expression of amused boredom on his ridiculously gorgeous face, as if the quarrel had nothing at all to do with him, and he merely watched the action at Drury Lane.

“Really,” Calliope muttered. “Our street is hardly Gentleman Jackson’s saloon.”

“Oh!” Thalia exclaimed. “Do you really think they might come to blows? How terribly interesting.”

“How very handsome he is,” sighed Lotty. “Just like the comte in Mademoiselle Marguerites’s Fatal Secret.”

Handsome—well, yes. Even Calliope had to admit that, albeit grudgingly. Westwood was sometimes called “the Greek God” in more florid circles, and strictly from an aesthetic viewpoint it was all too true. He could have been their Ladies Society Apollo statue come to warm, vivid, breathing life, if he were to shed his buckskin breeches and exquisite bottle-green coat. He was hatless now, despite the sunny skies, his glossy, sable-dark curls tossed by the wind until they fell in artistic disarray over his brow. His skin was always a golden-bronze, his eyes dark and maddeningly unreadable.

No, Calliope thought as she watched him now, trying to reason with Mr Mountbank with a half-grin on his lips. He was not so much a god, as a young Greek fisherman, virile, earthbound, as secret as the deepest sea. Surely he got that sense of otherness from his mother. Like the Chases’ own mother, the late countess had hailed from more exotic climes. She came from where else but Athens, the daughter of a famous Greek scholar.

For an instant, it seemed as if Westwood would actually alight from his phaeton and face the apoplectic wrath of Mr Mountbank. The ladies at the window held their collective breath, but, alas, fisticuffs—and shirtsleeves—in Mayfair were not to be. Mountbank, faced with an opponent potentially closer than several feet away, backed off and hurried on his way, steering his carriage precariously around the corner.

The ladies, disappointed, also backed away, leaving the view to return to their seats. The drawing room was soon filled with the mingling of chatter, music, tea being poured into delicate cups. Calliope, though, could not yet leave with them. Could not break that cord. Something tightened, binding her there, staring down at Cameron de Vere.

He laughed aloud at Mountbank’s precipitous retreat, his head thrown back with the unbridled freedom of his humour. His hair fell away from his chiseled face, the sharp angles of his cheekbones and nose. He leaned back easily on the cushioned seat, free as a corsair at the helm of his ship. Passers-by paused to stare at him, as if drawn by the sheer life of him, yet he noticed not at all, so comfortable in his own skin, his own world.

Blast him, anyway, Calliope thought wryly. Blast for being—him. For being all she was not. For being so free. Not bound to family responsibilities.

Calliope leaned her forehead against the cool glass, watching as Lord Westwood’s laughter faded and he once again collected the loosened reins. Even his casual movements were filled with a smooth, unstudied grace.

She watched him, and remembered their first meeting, at the beginning of the Season. Was that only weeks ago? It felt a lifetime. Or mere moments. That night when…

No! No, that didn’t bear thinking of. Not now. She was in the middle of a Ladies Society meeting! Her friends were nearby. Thinking of Cameron de Vere, seeing him, fantasising about him as some Greek fisherman on a beach, would only discompose her. Her friends were sure to ask questions, and that would never do. She was always collected and calm. Always in control. She had to be, her family relied on her.

Why, then, did she tremble so much, just from watching him down on the street? It was ridiculous!

Calliope reached up for the fringed edge of the satin drape, clutching at it to draw it over the window. Before she could do so, concealing herself and all her unruly emotions, Lord Westwood glanced up and saw her there. Saw her staring at him.

For an instant, it was as if a cloud passed over the Grecian sun. He frowned, his velvety brown eyes narrowing. Then, as swiftly as it came, the cloud vanished. He smiled, a wide, white Corsair grin, and gave her a jaunty salute.

Calliope gasped involuntarily, and yanked the curtain closed. The rogue!

She spun away from the window, wrapping her cashmere shawl tighter around her shoulders—only to find Clio observing her closely.

Calliope adored her sister, the closest to her in age and in artistic inclination, but sometimes, just sometimes, she was a bit uneasy to be faced with those unerring, unwavering green eyes.

“You should stay out of the sun, Cal,” Clio said quietly. “It makes your cheeks so flushed.”

Calliope Chase.

Cameron frowned as she thrust the draperies shut, as if to block out a demon from her home. To bar all laughter from the premises. To bar him.

He shouldn’t care. He didn’t care. Calliope Chase was beautiful, it was true. Yet London was filled with lovely ladies, most of them far less prickly and mysterious than Miss Chase. Yet somehow, ever since their first meeting—or first clash, as he thought of it—he couldn’t get her out of his mind. Was he becoming like his rather bizarre cousin Gerald, who paid lightskirts hefty sums to whip his bare backside with a riding crop, pain and aggravation equalling pleasure?

Cam laughed aloud as he guided his horses back into the flow of traffic, picturing Calliope Chase wielding a leather whip with fire in her brown eyes. It was not an unlikely vision. She was named after the wrong mythological figure, surely. She was not a Muse, changeable and capricious and seductive. She was Athena, goddess of war, marching into battle to defend what she believed in, right or wrong.

An Athena with such an intriguing sadness behind her gaze.

Cam glanced over his shoulder before he turned the corner of the street, but the Chases’ house was closed up tight. There was no flash of shining raven curls, no glimpse of fair skin and sparkling eyes. Yet he knew she was in there. Could still see her in his mind.

As he headed off into the park, a shortcut to his own home, he let his horses have their head a bit. He saw Mountbank far ahead. Such a silly puppy, getting so upset because Cam had danced with Lady Emmeline Saunders! Anyone could see he was no rival for her affections. She was a pretty girl, and full of interesting conversation (unlike most of the society chits mothers were always pushing his way!). She had a quick humour, too, despite being bosom friends with Miss Chase. But there was something missing when he talked to Lady Emmeline, looked at her.

There was always something missing. Something so empty and hollow at the centre of his life, something that was not filled by all his pursuits—his clubs, his horses, women, even his studies. It was a cold and echoing spot, always with him. He only really forgot it, felt a new warmth spark on that ice, when he crossed swords with Calliope Chase.

Curious. Very curious indeed. And not something he cared to think about too deeply.

His horses were now a bit winded after their gallop through the park, so he eased them out of the gates towards home and their own mews. But they were blocked by an unexpected traffic obstruction, a tangled knot of vehicles and horses and pedestrians that brought all movement to a temporary standstill.

“Blast!” Cam muttered, craning his neck to try to peer past a lumbering barouche. He was meant to attend a musical evening later, one he was rather looking forward to as it featured a speculative reconstruction of ancient Greek theatrical music. “What is it now?”

Then the barouche lurched to one side, and he understood. A great crowd had gathered in front of the Marchioness of Tenbray’s home, gawking up at the window where the infamous Lily Thief had climbed in to snatch away her ladyship’s Etruscan diadem. The thief had been gone from society for a while; his reappearance was the latest sensation.

Cam chuckled, and sat back on the seat to wait for the crowd to clear enough for him to pass. The Lily Thief—how dramatic the moniker was! And how amusing his exploits were, tweaking the noses of some of the ton’s most misguided collectors. If only…

If only it was not so dangerous, and destructive. Cam was usually the first to applaud daring, to laud independence, even eccentricity. Look at his own family! Eccentrics one and all. But some things were simply too important to trifle with, including objects of immense cultural heritage. Like that diadem, or the other antiquities that fell into the Lily Thief’s hands. Who knew where those precious pieces had gone? What would become of them?

And then there were objects that had not yet fallen to the Lily Thief. Objects whose fate was even more vile. Averton’s Artemis, for instance.

Cam’s gloved hands fisted on the reins, causing the horses to toss their heads restlessly. He forced himself to relax, murmuring to them soothingly, but by damn, there was nothing that made him more furious than the Duke of “Avarice”!

That Artemis was snatched from her home on Delos, the place where she had belonged for thousands of years. She was Greek, and now she was merely an object of greed for an English lord. A vile man who had no care for her true worth.

“You know of Artemis?” Cam could almost hear his mother whisper so long ago, her accent as warm and musical as her Athenian home. “Zeus’ favourite child, the goddess of the moon and the hunt, the Maiden of the Silver Bow. She races through the forest in her silver chariot, always free, never the possession of any man. Once she shot an arrow into a vast city of unjust men, and the arrow pierced all of them, never ceasing in its flight until justice was served…”

And now she was a prisoner, locked away from the Greek moonlight for ever.

What would the learned Miss Chase say about that? For Cameron was certain she had an opinion about the Duke of “Avarice” and his newest prize, his famed Alabaster Goddess. But would she tell that opinion to him?

The traffic snarl finally eased a bit, letting him guide the horses through on their way home. Yes, indeed. Calliope Chase was sure to have something to say about it all. And he very much looked forward to hearing it.

Chapter Two

Calliope watched in her dressing table mirror, distracted, as her maid brushed out her hair in preparation for the evening ahead. A musicale, featuring not the usual young and untalented misses with their harps and pianofortes, but a recreation of music that might have been performed at plays by Aeschylus and Euripides at the great festivals of ancient times. She had been very much looking forward to it, it was just the sort of thing that most fascinated her. But now her thoughts were scattered and hazy, scudding here and there like springtime clouds.

She couldn’t stop thinking about Lord Westwood. He just kept popping into her mind, the vision of him outside her window, laughing and windblown and carefree.

“Pfft,” she sighed impatiently, reaching for one of the small white roses on the table and tearing at the soft petals. It was ever thus when she saw Cameron de Vere. He unsettled her, made her feel so ridiculously flustered and foolish. His smiles, so mocking, made her angry and impatient. So disordered.

He was an impossible man, with such incorrect ideas. But why didn’t he like her?

“Miss Chase!” her maid protested. “There will be no flowers left for your hair.”

Calliope glanced down, startled to see that she had destroyed two roses. “Sorry, Mary,” she muttered, dropping the denuded stem.

“Shall I try that new Artemis style, miss? It’s ever so popular!”

“No, thank you,” Calliope said, shuddering at the thought of appearing at the party with the same coiffure as everyone else. “Just my usual.”

Mary pouted a bit. She had surely long thought her talents were wasted on Calliope and her conservative tastes! But Calliope could not help it. She knew what suited her, what she liked.

And she had even dared fantasise once that Cameron de Vere would “suit her”. When he first arrived back in London, after a very long voyage to Italy and Greece, rumours raced through the drawing rooms of how handsome he was, how dashing, how scandalous. But that was not what fascinated her. She was interested in the fact that he was a student of art and history, as she was. She longed to hear tales of his travels, to see the beautiful antiquities he had surely brought back with him for study and preservation.

It seemed they were destined to be friends, as their fathers had once been many years ago. Sir Walter Chase and the late Earl of Westwood were both scholars and collectors, great rivals as well as friends. The earl finally pulled the trump card in their collecting race, a bride who was actually Greek, not just French as Lady Chase was. Calliope and Cameron both grew up surrounded by the glories of the ancient world, though they never met after the de Veres departed for their incessant travels when their son was small.

When he came back to London, a grown man, the earl in his own right now, Calliope listened to the whispers about him and dared to let a tiny hope grow in her heart. Could this, then, finally be a man who could understand her? Share her passions, as none of her suitors could?

Those hopes were blighted when they at last met in person, at a reception he gave at his parents’ townhouse, his house now.

From her earliest childhood, Calliope remembered an antiquity she had adored, a bust of Hermes that once graced the foyer of that house. Her father had tried to buy it, but the old earl refused all offers, much to Calliope’s sadness. She loved Hermes’ mischievous smile, carved to be almost lifelike in the cold marble, loved his winged helmet and the swirls of his curling hair. She was so very excited the night of that reception, so looking forward to seeing Hermes again.

But he was not there! His niche was empty, as were all the others that had once held exquisite vases and goblets. Stunned, Calliope stayed there in the foyer as her father and sisters joined the gathering in the drawing room. She stood below that empty niche, staring up as if she could make her Hermes appear. Her plans for this reception—seeing all the lovely antiquities, meeting the new earl, talking with him about those cherished objects and perhaps forming a bond—were completely thrown awry.

Calliope did not much like having her plans upset.

“Well,” she heard a voice say, deep and velvety, faintly amused “you must be the missing Miss Chase.”

Calliope glanced over her shoulder to find a man standing a few feet away, a faint half-smile on his lips, as sensual as that of her lost Hermes. He was dressed most properly, in buff breeches, a dark blue coat, and a pale grey brocade waistcoat, his cravat simply tied and skewered with a cameo pin. Yet he seemed an alien creature dropped into the sumptuous foyer, a man of bronzed skin and too-long, glossy dark curls. Of flashing, familiar brown eyes.

“The Greek god,” she remembered Lotty sighing. “Oh, Calliope, he is a veritable Greek god!”

“And you must be Lord Westwood,” she answered coolly, disconcerted by her reaction to him, to that smile of his. This was not how she pictured their meeting!

“I am indeed,” he said, moving closer, graceful as a cat. He stopped close to her side, so close she could smell the faint lemony scent of his cologne, feel the heat of his skin, reaching towards her enticingly. She stepped away, closer to the reassuring chill of the marble wall.

“There used to be a bust of Hermes here,” she said, swallowing hard to still the sudden tremor of her voice. “A most beautiful piece.”

“Most beautiful,” he answered, gazing not at the niche, but at her. Steadily. “I returned it to Greece. Where it belongs.”

And that was when she knew they could never be friends…

“Miss Chase? What do you think?”

Calliope jumped a bit in her seat, startled out of her memories by the sudden sound of Mary’s voice. She glanced into the mirror, only to find that her cheeks were flushed, her eyes too bright. As if that scene in the de Vere foyer, weeks in the past now, had only just happened.

But her hair was tidy, swept back in her usual braided knot and decorated with the remaining white roses, her curls perfectly smooth.

“It’s lovely, Mary. As usual,” Calliope said breathlessly.

Mary nodded, satisfied, and went about finding Calliope’s shawl and slippers. Calliope reached for her pearl drop earrings, trying to forget that past evening, to focus on the soirée ahead. Cameron de Vere did not matter in the least! He was merely a misguided individual. Albeit a handsome one.

As she clasped on the earrings, there was a knock at her chamber door. “The carriage is waiting, Miss Chase,” the butler announced.

“Thank you,” Calliope answered. She took a deep breath, and rose slowly from her seat. It was time for the show to begin.

“If Lady Russell’s plumes were any higher, I fear she would launch up into the sky like some demented parrot and leave us quite without a hostess,” Clio whispered, leaning close to Calliope’s ear.

Calliope pressed her gloved fingertips to her lips, trying not to laugh aloud. The hostess of the musicale did indeed look a bit like a bizarre parrot, with towering, multi-coloured feathers spraying forth from a purple-and-green satin turban. Clio always did this; she was so very quiet that everyone believed she had nothing to add to any conversation and thus ignored her. This was a great mistake, for her sharp green eyes observed everything, and she sometimes broke forth with startling—and acerbic—insights. Comparisons to jungle parrots were quite mild for her.

“But what of Miss Pratt-Beckworth?” Calliope whispered back. “I’m afraid someone told the poor girl that orange stripes were all the rage this season and she believed them.”

“Indeed. It is better than that chartreuse creation she wore to the opera last week. Perhaps the Ladies Society needs to take her under its wing?” Clio shook her head sadly.

Calliope joined her in perusing the room, turning away from the mediocre painting of a stormy sea she and Clio had been pretending to admire. An evening of ancient Greek music would surely not sound too jolly to most of the ton, but Lady Russell was popular, turban or no, and tended to attract around her those of a more philosophical bent. So the room was quickly filling up, people milling about between the rows of gilt chairs, chatting and sipping lemonade—and stronger beverages—before the music began. It was not a “dreadful crush” by any means. There was no danger of overheating, or fainting, or having one’s train trodden on. But the colours were vivid against Lady Russell’s collection of bad paintings and very good antique statuary, a swirl of pastels, blues, greens, reds—and one orange—mingling with the hum of conversation. Talk of music and history were de rigeur tonight, exactly what Calliope usually loved.

But she could not entirely concentrate on the classical world. She still felt so restless. Unfocused.

Next to Calliope, Clio removed her spectacles, squinting out at the crowd as she rubbed the bridge of her nose. Unlike Calliope, who usually wore Grecian white muslin because it was the simplest choice, Clio was clad in emerald-green silk embroidered with a gold-key pattern, her auburn hair bound back by a gilded bandeau. A parrot of a far more subtle sort.

“What do you think, Cal?” she asked quietly. “Is the Lily Thief among us tonight?”

Calliope stiffened. The Lily Thief—how could she forget? Her gaze quickly scanned the gathering, jumping lightly from one young man to the next. There were so many there, tall, short, plain, handsome. Yet not the one she sought.

Could that possibly be the cause of her strange restlessness?

Certainly not! Calliope shrugged that away. The doings of Cameron de Vere were none of her concern. Just because she had been certain a Greek evening would appeal to him…

“I don’t believe so,” she said.

“Then you do suspect his identity?” Clio asked. “You know?”

“I don’t know,” Calliope answered impatiently. “How could I? I simply have an idea.”

“Yet he is not here, your suspect?”

Calliope shook her head.

“But then how…?” Clio could not say more, though. Thalia called to her from across the room, where she was closely examining the musicians’ instruments—much to their chagrin. Clio wandered away, leaving Calliope alone.

There were several friends she could join—indeed, a few people she really ought to speak to. She feared she would not be good company at the moment, not with such wild thoughts of de Vere and the Lily Thief whirling through her mind. She placed her half-empty glass on the nearest table and drifted away from the crowd towards the doors of Lady Russell’s conservatory.

The glassed-in space was invitingly warm, scented with the rich, green fragrance of geraniums, lavender, mint, the earthiness of the damp soil. The room was empty now, though softly lit and furnished with scattered wrought-iron settees for visitors. Calliope welcomed the silence, the moment to collect her thoughts and become her usual calm self again.

At the far end of the conservatory was a cluster of antique statues, a stone Aphrodite and her scantily clad acolytes. They watched all the horticulture with expressions of impassive, scornful beauty. They were quite stunning, and their cold perfection drew Calliope closer.

“If only I could be like you,” she whispered to the disdainful Aphrodite. “So very—certain. So unchanging. No doubts or fears.”

“How very dull that would be,” Westwood said.

“Did you follow me in here?’ she asked, not surprised, glancing over at him.

“On the contrary, Miss Chase,” he said, giving her one of his too-charming smiles. “I was in here enjoying a quiet moment to finish my wine…” He displayed a half-empty glass. “And here you came, talking to yourself. One couldn’t help but overhear.”

Calliope reached behind her to plant her palms on the cold stone base, trying to hold herself upright, to maintain some dignity. His cognac-coloured eyes, so deep and opaque, seemed to see far too much. She didn’t know where to look, where to turn.

“I, too, was looking for a quiet moment,” she said finally. “Before the music begins.”

He nodded understandingly. “Sometimes people ask for too much. The only recourse is solitude.” He took a step closer, then another. Calliope shivered in her thin gown, yet he no longer watched her. He gazed up at the statue.

“You chose a fine confidante,” he said. “She looks so very—knowing. As if she has seen everything in the long years of her life.”

Calliope, too, glanced up at Aphrodite, her pointed, cracked white chin, the clusters of her rippling hair. She did seem knowing, mocking even. Just as Westwood himself was. “I wonder what she makes of Lady Russell’s routs? How they compare to the revels of Greece.”

He laughed, that rich, rough sound that touched her to her very core. “I am sure she thinks them very tame affairs indeed! For did she not come from the inner sanctum of a temple to Aphrodite, where there were, er…”

“Orgies?”

He glanced towards her, his brow arched in sudden amusement. “Miss Chase. How very shocking.”

Calliope could feel her cheeks heat under his regard, but she forced the horrid blush away. A scholar did not always have time for niceties. “My father possesses an extensive library on the ancient world. I have read much of it, including John Galt’s Letters from the Levant. And Lady Mary Wortley Montague’s narratives of her travels.”

“Of course. Well, after the orgies, she must find musical evenings a bit tedious. I’m sure she was most happy you chose to converse with her.”

Calliope reached out to touch Aphrodite’s sandaled foot, the stone cold through the thin kid of her glove. This was the best sort of confidante—the mute sort. “If it was up to you, she would surely be sent back to moulder in the ruins of her erstwhile temple, with no one to talk to at all.”

“Ah, Miss Chase.” He leaned even closer to murmur in her ear, his warm breath lightly stirring the curls at her temple. “Who says all the orgies have ended?”

Calliope stared up at him, captured by his voice, his breath, his gaze—everything. It was as if she was suddenly paralysed and could not move, could not turn away. All time was suspended, and there was only him.

He, too, seemed startled by whatever this moment was. He watched her, his lips parted, the glass in his hand perfectly still.

“Miss Chase,” he murmured. “I…”

Outside their green sanctuary, the sound of music tuning up began, and it was as if the prosaic noise burst some enchantment, some spell. He shifted back, and she turned her head away, sucking in a deep breath. She felt as though she had just run a long distance, all achy and airless.

“Shall we go in?” he said, his voice taut, even deeper.

“Of course,” Calliope whispered. She spun around and marched back along the flagstone walkway, smoothing her palms over her warm cheeks. He was behind her. She could hear his steps, the soft rustle of his superfine coat, but mercifully he did not offer his arm or touch her.

She wasn’t sure what she would do if he did.

Chapter Three

Calliope slipped into the empty chair next to Clio just as the musicians finished tuning their instruments. Her throat ached as she tried to draw in a calm, normal breath, tried to still the clamorous beating of her heart.

Clio gave her a sidelong glance as she slid a handwritten programme into Calliope’s hand. “Where were you, Cal?” she whispered.

“Just in the conservatory,” Calliope whispered back, resisting the urge to fan herself with the thin parchment. Why did Lady Russell insist on keeping her room so warm? “Looking at the Aphrodite statue.”

Clio’s expression was unreadable as she glanced at her own programme, her lips pursed. “Oh? Did you suspect she would be the next victim of the dreaded Lily Thief? Spirited away into the night for nefarious purposes?”

Calliope bit her tongue to keep from laughing aloud. “Certainly not. Aphrodite is solid marble and at least six feet tall. Unless the Lily Thief is the reincarnation of Hercules.”

“One never knows. He could then lift the statue up through the skylights and…” Her words trailed away as Lord Westwood appeared in the room, leaning carelessly against a pillar at the very periphery of the audience. His gaze met Calliope’s as she watched him warily, and then, slowly, audaciously, he winked at her.

Blast him! Calliope’s stare shot back to the front of the room, her face burning. Where was the cold marble of Aphrodite when it was truly needed?

“Were you quite alone in the conservatory, Cal?” Clio murmured.

“Lord Westwood might have wandered in just as I was leaving,” Calliope answered reluctantly.

“And did you two quarrel again?”

“I never quarrel with people!”

“Never? With anyone?”

“You and Thalia are different. You are my sisters; I’m allowed to quarrel with you in the privacy of our home. But not with people at parties. Lord Westwood and I merely discuss our artistic differences.”

“Hmm,” Clio said, very non-committally. “I do believe our hostess is about to say a few words.”

Calliope had seldom been more grateful to anyone than she was to Lady Russell for her timely interruption. Usually she felt she could tell Clio anything, and her sister’s quiet understanding could soothe any hurt or trouble. There was no use in trying to articulate what a meeting with Cameron de Vere made her feel, though. It was a tangle of temper that could never be unwound.

Calliope hated—hated—to be so discomposed! The solution would be never to see him again. Yet he always popped up wherever she was! If only he would go back to Greece, and carry on with his misguided, dangerous work far away from her…

Calliope folded her gloved hands tightly in her lap to still their trembling, staring straight ahead at Lady Russell’s multi-coloured plumes, now even more lopsided than before.

“Good evening, my dear friends,” Lady Russell said, holding up her hands so she did indeed seem to be a parrot about to be borne aloft. “I am so glad you could join me on this very special occasion. We will hear for the first time in centuries the strains of music last heard in ancient Greece. Using a fragment of measures copied from a work by Terence, fortunately preserved during the Renaissance and hidden away in an Italian monastery, we have reproduced a ‘Delphic Hymn to Apollo’. The instruments used tonight greatly resemble the lyres, aulos and citharas seen here.”

She waved her hands, and two servants appeared carrying a large blackwork krater. A gasp rose in the room. This was one of Lady Russell’s greatest treasures, borne out of Greece decades ago by her grandfather. She seldom displayed the vase; it was rumoured she kept it locked up in her own bedchamber where only she could view it. It was exquisitely lovely, completely intact except for some thin cracks and a missing handle. The decoration was a party scene, graceful dancers, musicians, reclining drinkers. The ancient instruments they held did indeed resemble the gleaming new ones held by the musicians seated now in Lady Russell’s drawing room.

That vase would make a prime target for the Lily Thief, Calliope thought, examining its gleaming elegance.

“Now, my dear guests,” Lady Russell said. “Close your eyes and imagine you are sitting in a Grecian amphitheatre thousands of years ago…”

“I’m surprised she didn’t make us all wear chitons and sandals tonight,” Clio muttered. “What a sight we’d make then. Especially old Lord Erring. The poor man must weigh three hundred pounds. I doubt there would be enough white muslin in London.”

Calliope laughed behind her programme. She could think of one man who could do a short chiton justice, and it wasn’t poor old Lord Erring. She peeked at Lord Westwood over the gilded edge of the parchment. He was also watching the krater, a small frown etched across his brow. An unhappy Apollo.

What could he be thinking of?

Cameron’s gaze followed the krater as it was carried from the room. How lovely it was, and how tragic it was so seldom seen. Seldom loved. Like Lady Tenbray’s Etruscan diadem, it had been snatched from its home and locked away for the selfish delectation of a tiny group, its true purpose long forgotten. Lost in time. That krater was made for parties and merriment.

Yet at this moment it was not the vase’s sad fate that preoccupied him. It was the carefully etched figure of a woman along one polished curve of the krater. Her slender body, draped in the fluid, graceful folds of her robe, was bent over her lyre. Dark curls, bound by a bandeau across her forehead, sprang free around her oval face. Her expression was serious, pensive, in contrast to the merrymaking dancers gambolling around her. She seemed to hear only her own music, lost in her own thoughts and feelings.

The image was ancient, and yet the artist’s model could have been Calliope Chase. The slim, dark beauty, the seriousness, the single-minded purpose—it was all Calliope.

As the music, a strange, discordant, haunting tune, filled the room, he glanced from the disappearing krater to its living embodiment. Calliope had been giggling with her sister, but now she stared raptly at the musicians, her pink lips parted and dark eyes shining as if she, too, could see things that were long dead living again, bright and vibrant. When Cameron saw ancient temples and theatres on his journeys, he saw not just the broken, silent ruins they were now, but the centres of life they once were. Places where people gathered, where they talked and laughed and loved, where they created art and beauty that were the greatest heritage of flawed mortals.

Calliope Chase shared this ability to see the vibrancy of the past, the living arc of history. He could see that in her eyes as she gazed at a sculpture or vase—as she listened to lost music roused to life again. But he could never understand her despite what they shared. If she could sense what he did, sense the true value of the heritage left to them by their ancestors, how could she advocate that these objects be locked away, unseen, far from their homes?

She was beautiful, just like that ancient woman with her lyre. Beautiful and intelligent and spirited. But as stubborn as a wild horse in the valleys of Greece.

Seeming to sense his regard, she glanced towards him. For a fleeting moment, she lacked the protective veil she usually drew around herself. Her gaze was open, vulnerable, gleaming with unshed tears. The eerie beauty of the music had moved her, as it did him, and for an instant they were bound together by the enchantment of the past.

Then the veil fell again, and she turned away so that he saw only her black curls, the pale curve of her neck and bare shoulder. But the magic was still there, a shimmering web of connection that urged him to press his lips to that white hollow at the nape of her neck, to trail kisses along her spine, breathing in the warm scent of her. Feeling her tremble under his touch until she cried out and that maddening veil vanished for ever, and he could see her true self.

Yet what would that true self be? A beautiful muse in truth—or a gorgon of destruction? Only a madman would take on one of the Chase Muses, and Cameron wanted to hold on to his tenuous sanity for as long as he could.

Suddenly, the music, the overheated room, the strange allure of Calliope Chase were too much for that thread of sanity. The old wildness was rising up in him like a fever. He spun around and left the room, the strains of music trailing behind him. In the foyer, the servants were placing the krater on a high pedestal where it could be viewed in distant safety after the performance.

It was too high to be touched without the stepstool the servants took when they left, yet from his vantage point Cam could clearly see the lyre player. The jewels in her headband, the delicate sandal peeking from the hem of her robe. From here she was even more like Calliope Chase. Beautiful and untouchable.

“Are you trying to decide how to steal it?” Calliope asked.

Cameron glanced back to find her standing in the drawing-room doorway, watching him with those steady brown eyes. Her face was a smooth and unreadable piece of marble, yet he could feel her tense wariness.

He should not be surprised at her suspicion. They had been at odds ever since that reception at his house, when she found Hermes missing from his niche. Their arguments only grew with every meeting after that. Yet still it hurt, like the sharp pinpricks of a tiny but fatal poisoned arrow. As he listened to the ancient music, as those strange, intimate thoughts of her neck and skin bombarded his mind, he felt so bound to her. So close to discovering the mystery of her.

But she seemed to think him a thief. The connection was not there for her. Not a muse then, or a gorgon either. Just a cold judge. The cool Athena he had once thought her.

He buried that hurt, shoving it down deep and piling other emotions on top of it—carelessness, insouciance. A chill to match her own.

“Perhaps you would care to come closer, Miss Chase, and ascertain for yourself if I carry a fresh lily in my pocket,” he said lightly, as if he did not care one whit for her suspicions. He stepped forward, holding out the edges of his coat so she saw the smoothness of the silk lining.

She did not move away, but her shoulders stiffened. “I am not a fool, Lord Westwood.”

“Indeed not, Miss Chase. ‘Foolish’ is the last word anyone could use to describe you. ‘Misguided’, perhaps.”

Something flared deep in those unreadable eyes, a flash of some black fire. But still she did not rise to his bait. She seldom did. “I am not the one so misguided as to turn to crime in order to prove a point! I am not the one who holds the honour of my family or the claims of scholarship so cheap. Those of us with the advantages of education and travel have a duty—”

“And who are you, Calliope Chase, to lecture me on duty? Or honour?” His temper, tamped down so carefully for so long, burst out in a veritable Catherine wheel of sparks. His desire for her, her beauty and stubbornness, his frustration—it would all drive him mad, in truth!

He stalked closer to her, so close he could smell the summer scent of the roses in her hair, see the delicate blue tracery of veins under her ivory skin, the throb of her life pulse at the base of her throat. That wild urge to grab her and kiss her until her chilly frostiness thawed and flowed away, leaving only her, them, was nigh undeniable.

She did not turn away, just stared up at him, still and wide-eyed, that pulse beating until he swore he could hear it. Hear her heartbeat. He even reached for her, his fingers aching to clasp the smooth, bare inch of skin above her kid gloves, but some last flicker of sanity made him drop his hands, back away from her.

“How can you know me so little, Miss Chase?” he said hoarsely.

Her lips parted, yet she said nothing. For a second, a whisper of doubt floated across her face. A hint of puzzlement. Then it was gone, hidden again.

“What else am I to think?” she said. “How can I know you at all?”

Cameron could bear it no longer. He spun away from her and left the house, storming past the startled footman who appeared at the front door. The night air was chilly and clammy as he strode along the quiet street, leaving the lights and music of Lady Russell’s house behind him. He could not quite leave Calliope Chase behind, though. Her quiet, accusing ghost seemed to follow him as he turned the corner.

“Infernal woman,” he muttered. There was only one place he could exorcise her—the most raucous, most disreputable gaming hell he knew, far from these genteel squares and solemn prosperity. The Devil’s Dice. There not even Calliope Chase’s ghost could survive.

As Lady Russell’s front door slammed behind Lord Westwood, Calliope sagged against the base of the krater’s pillar. Every ounce of willpower that held her upright, that kept her from fleeing, flooded away in a cold rush, leaving her weak and trembling. Why did she feel this way every time she saw him? Why did they always quarrel so?

Behind her, she heard the click of the drawing room door opening and closing, the rise and fall of music, the patter of slippers against the parquet floor.

“Cal?” Clio whispered. Her steady arm went around Calliope’s waist, and Calliope turned into her gratefully. “What is wrong? Are you ill?”

“No, no. I just—needed some air,” Calliope answered.

“So you came out here alone?”

“I was not quite alone. But then I said something wrong, as I always do with him, and he left. Just ran out the front door into the street rather than be here with me!” Calliope realised she was not making any sense. She hardly understood herself! Why did she care at all if Cameron de Vere, a reckless probable-thief, ran away from her? She didn’t want to be with him, either.

Did she?

Clio glanced towards the door, frowning. “Who ran out into the street?”

“Lord Westwood, of course.”

“You mean you were speaking with Lord Westwood out here, and he became so angry he just ran off…” Clio’s stare shifted to the krater above their heads, and her green eyes hardened, turning oddly intent. “Oh, no, Cal. You surely did not accuse Lord Westwood of being the Lily Thief!”

Calliope covered her hot cheeks with her gloved hands, trying to blot out the memory of his anger. Of her own impulsive ridiculousness. “I—may have.”

“Cal…” Clio groaned “…whatever has come over you? I could see Thalia doing such a thing. She would challenge the devil himself to a duel! Not you. Are you ill? Do you have a fever?”

“I wish I did, then I would have some excuse.”

Clio shook her head. “Poor Cal. I am sure he will not speak of it to anyone, since his father and ours were such friends.”

“No, he won’t speak of it. Except maybe to the governors of Bedlam.”

Clio laughed. “There, you see! You made a joke. All is not lost. Perhaps next time you see him you can say you were simply overcome by the power of the music.”

“Or drunk on the wine,” Calliope muttered. She smoothed her hair and shook out her skirts, feeling herself slowly coming back to her usual calm presence. “I wish we never had to see him again at all.”

“That’s not likely, is it? Our world is so very small.” Clio looked again to the krater. “But tell me, Cal, what made you suspect Lord Westwood of being the Lily Thief?”

Calliope shrugged. “It seems the sort of hot-headed thing he would do, does it not? He sent his own antiquities back to Greece; perhaps he thinks others should do the same, willy-nilly. I don’t know. It was just a—a feeling.”

“Now I know you have a fever! Calliope Chase, going by a mere feeling? Never.”

Calliope laughed. “Tease all you like, Clio. I know that I usually have to carefully study a thing before I make my point…”

“Study it to death,” Clio muttered.

Calliope ignored her. “I like to be certain of things. But don’t the exploits of the Lily Thief just seem like something he would do? A person must be clever to get in and out of such fine houses undetected. They must be knowledgeable about art and antiquities, for only the finest and most historically important pieces are taken. They have to be sure of their cause, as Lord Westwood is. And they must be very misguided. As Lord Westwood also is.”

“Why, Cal,” Clio said softly. “It sounds as if you admire the Lily Thief.”

Calliope considered this. Admire the Lily Thief? The most dangerous of criminals, for he stole not only objects but history itself? Absurd! “I admire his taste, perhaps, but certainly not his goals. I abhor the disappearance of such treasures. You know that.”

Clio nodded. “I do know how passionate you are in your own cause, sister. But pray do not let it overcome you again when it comes to Lord Westwood! We have no proof he is the thief.”

“No proof yet.” Behind the closed drawing room door, the strains of music faded, replaced by the ring of applause. “It seems the concert is ending. Shall we fetch Thalia and go home? It grows late.”

Chapter Four

“Good morning, Miss Calliope!” Mary sang as she drew back the bedchamber curtains, letting the greyish-yellow light of late morning flood across the room.

Calliope squeezed her eyes tighter shut, resisting the urge to draw the bedclothes over her head. How could it be time to wake up? She had only just fallen asleep. The long hours of the night she had spent tossing and turning, going over and over her hasty words to Lord Westwood. The anger she saw in his eyes.

Clio was surely right. She was fevered. It was the only explanation for showing her hand so early. She would never catch him now.

She needed to regroup. Strategise. It would surely all come back together at the Duke of Averton’s Artemis ball. The Ladies Society would see to that.

“Did you enjoy the musicale last night, Miss Calliope?” Mary asked, arranging a tray of chocolate and buttered rolls on the bedside table.

“Yes, thank you, Mary,” Calliope answered. She propped the pillows up against the carved headboard, pushing herself upright to face the day. No one ever won a battle lolling around! “Tell me, are my sisters up yet?”

“Miss Thalia has already departed for her music lesson,” Mary said, rifling through the wardrobe. “And Miss Clio is at breakfast with your father and Miss Terpsichore. She left you a note on the tray.”

As Mary organised the day’s attire, Calliope munched on a roll and reached for Clio’s message.

Cal, it read in Clio’s bold, slashing hand. I think we need an outing to clear our heads. Shall we take Cory to see the Elgin Marbles? She loves them so much, and we can talk there without Father overhearing.

Calliope sighed. Perhaps Father would not overhear them at the British Museum, but the rest of London would. Still, Clio was right. They needed to clear their heads after last night, and where better than among the glorious beauties of the Parthenon sculptures? Terpsichore—Cory—was a delightful girl, just turned thirteen now and wanting so much to be a young lady, and she deserved a treat after being separated from their younger sisters, who stayed in the country with their various nurses and governesses.

And surely they wouldn’t run into Lord Westwood there. The man probably didn’t rise until two at the earliest, and the Elgin Marbles must represent all he abhorred: treasures taken from Greece and displayed for Londoners.

“Mary, I shall need a walking dress and warm pelisse,” she said, swallowing the last of her chocolate. “And my lap desk. I need to send notes to the Ladies Society.”

They had battle plans to draw up.

The Chases’ de facto second home when in town was always the British Museum. They had been brought there since earliest childhood, escorted from artefact to artefact by their parents, instilled with a love for the past by the beauty of the pieces and by their father’s vivid tales. Many of their favourites—Greek vases, Egyptian sculptures, Viking helmets—were immortalised for them in their mother’s sketchbooks, kept by Clio since Lady Chase’s death in birthing the youngest Muse, Polyhymnia, three years ago.

But their mother had never seen the sisters’ favourite room of all, the Temporary Elgin Room—which was showing signs of becoming rather more permanent. This was where they went now, after climbing up the wide stone steps and passing through the massive pillars into the sacred hush of the museum.

“May we visit the mummies after we see the Marbles?” Cory asked eagerly.

Clio laughed. “Morbid child! You only want to scare your little sisters with gruesome tales of them in your next letter. But we can visit them, if there is time.”

Cory wrinkled her nose. “There won’t be. You two always spend hours with the Marbles.”

“You enjoy them, too, silly monkey, and you know it,” Calliope said. “Perhaps after the Marbles and the mummies we can have an ice at the shop across the way.”

Smiling happily with the promise of dead Egyptians and a sweet, Cory went off to sketch her favourite sculpture yet again, the head of a horse from the chariot of the Moon, his mane and jaw drooping after an exhausting journey across the heavens. Calliope and Clio strolled over to the back wall, where the frieze depicting the procession of a Panathenaic festival was mounted. It was quiet there for the moment, despite the milling crowds, tucked behind the massive carved figures of Theseus and a draped, headless goddess.

Calliope stared up at the line of young women, all of them gracefully poised and beautifully dressed in chitons and cloaks, bearing vessels and libation bowls as offerings to the gods. They were not as well displayed as they deserved; the room was cramped and ill lit, the walls dark. But Calliope always loved to see them, to revel in their classical beauty, in the procession that never ended. And today she was glad of the dim light, for it hid the purplish circles of her sleepless night.

“I have called for a meeting of the Ladies Society tomorrow afternoon,” she told Clio.

Clio’s gaze did not turn from the figure of the head girl in the procession, the one that held aloft an incense stand, but her lips curved down. “So soon? We usually only convene once a week.”

“This is an emergency. The Duke of Averton’s ball is coming up soon. We must be prepared for whatever might happen there.”

“Do you still think you-know-who plans to snatch the Alabaster Goddess away that night?”

“I’m not sure. That is why I said we need to be prepared for anything. Even nothing. The ball might pass off quite peacefully—or as peacefully as anything could at Averton’s house. The sculpture will stay in place…”

“But it will not stay in place!” Clio hissed. Her hand tightened on the head of her furled parasol, and for a moment Calliope feared she might stab it into the air, or at an unwary passerby. “Averton is sending it off to his infernal fortress in Yorkshire, where no one will ever see it again! He is a vile, selfish man with no care for his collections. Do you think that is a better fate for poor Artemis than to fall into the hands of the Lily Thief?”

Calliope bit her lip. “It’s true that he is well named the Duke of ‘Avarice’. I like him no better than you, Clio. He is a very—strange man. But at least we would know where the statue is, and one day a museum or legitimate antiquarian could acquire her. If the Lily Thief took her, she would vanish utterly! We would learn nothing from her then.”

“Honestly, Cal! I do love you, but sometimes you don’t seem to understand.” Clio stalked away, her parasol swinging, and left Calliope standing alone.

Calliope stared up again at the carved procession, swallowing hard against her pricked feelings. She and Clio were as close as two sisters could be, drawn together by their love of history, by the need to be “mothers” to their younger sisters in the wake of their own mother’s death. And she knew Clio had a temper that subsided as quickly as it flared. That did not make their little quarrels any easier, though.

What was it lately, Calliope wondered, that caused such arguments? First Lord Westwood, now her sister. Her eyes itched with unshed tears, and she rubbed at them hard. When she looked up again, she feared she was hallucinating. Lord Westwood stood right beside her, staring down at her solemnly, his glossy curls brushed carelessly from the sharp, shadowed planes of his face so that he seemed one of the sculptures himself.

She blinked—and found he was still there. She drew in a steadying breath, and offered him a tentative smile. “Lord Westwood.”

“Miss Chase,” he answered. “I trust you are enjoying your outing?”

“Yes, very much. My sisters and I visit the museum whenever we can.” She gestured towards Cory, who was still sketching the horse’s head with Clio leaning over her.

“I come here often, as well,” he said.

“Do you? I—I imagine it reminds you of your mother’s homeland,” she said carefully, wary of yet another quarrel. How could one speak of these controversial carvings without starting a fuss, though?

But he simply answered, “Yes. Her tales when I was a child were always of gods and goddesses, and even muses.”

Calliope smiled. “Perhaps then you have an understanding of how changeable a muse can be?”

He smiled in return, a quick grin that seemed to light up their dim corner of the room. “I have heard tell of such things. One day the muse will smile on you, the next she has vanished. Perhaps that is simply part of her allure.”

Allure? Did he then find her—alluring? She would have thought “prickly” or “annoying” more likely adjectives he would use. But then, did she not think the same of him? Annoying, and yet strangely alluring. She shrugged away these distracting thoughts and said, “Sometimes, too, a muse forgets her manners. Says things she should not. Then she must apologise.”

“Is that what this is, Miss Chase? An apology?”

Calliope sighed. “I fear so.”

He clutched at his heart, staggering back as if in profound shock. “Never!”

She laughed. “I would not have you think I was not properly brought up, Lord Westwood. I should not have said those things to you last night. My sister says I should blame it on the spell of the music or on the wine, but in truth I do not know why I said them. I was just rather out of sorts.”

“I suppose I have been out of sorts with you in the past as well, Miss Chase. Perhaps we can start anew. Cry pax.”

“Pax, then. For now.”

“For now. Come, let me show you my favourite of these friezes.” He offered her his arm, and though she only laid her fingertips very lightly on his fine wool sleeve, she could feel the warmth of his skin, the strength of his coiled muscle beneath the layers of cloth. His arm tensed under her touch, as if he felt it, too. That strange, gossamer tie. “There, that wasn’t too hard, was it?”

“Not at all,” Calliope answered.

He smiled, and led her to the end of the marble procession, where it curved around to the next wall. There was etched the very reason for the procession—Athena, seated in profile as she observed her offerings. She did not wear her usual helmet on her curled hair, but held her aegis on her lap and bore a spear in her right hand.

“She is your favourite?” Calliope asked.

“You sound surprised.”

“Perhaps I imagined you preferred one of the Lapiths and centaurs from the metope, drunkenly breaking up the party. Or Dionysus over there with his leopard skin.”

He laughed. “Oh, come now, Miss Chase! I do enjoy the pleasures of life, but I am hardly a centaur. Or a Dionysus. Were we not just speaking of orgies last night? His soirées tend to end so badly, with the participants tearing each other limb from limb and devouring the raw flesh. No, indeed, cannibalism is not for me.”

Calliope felt herself blushing again, an embarrassing red heat flooding up her throat to her cheeks. “I never quite imagined cannibalism as one of your vices, Lord Westwood. But tell me why you like Athena here so very much? She seems too rational and measured for you.”

“It is exactly those qualities—her rational calm, her dignity. My life has never held much of those qualities, pulled from pillar to post with my parents, and I crave them. I can find them right here, carved in this marble.”

Calliope blinked in surprise. True, the two of them had declared peace only moments before, but she could never have expected such an instance of confidence from Cameron de Vere, of all people. A wistful longing was etched on his handsome face, driving out the careless mockery.

“She is my favourite, too,” she admitted.

“And so she should be, for you are very like her.”

“I, like Athena?” she said, startled. “She would never have been rude to you at a musicale.”

“No, she would have struck me down with her spear. I must feel fortunate you wield no such weapon. Your tongue is quite sharp enough.”

Before Calliope could answer, there was a sudden commotion in the doorway, disturbing the church-like hush of the room. A ripple of comment, of tension. Calliope peered around the bulk of a headless goddess to see that the Duke of Averton had just made an entrance.

He was a handsome enough man, Calliope thought, she would give him that much. Tall, slim, with flowing red-gold hair that fairly shimmered in the dim light, and bright green eyes that took in everything around him in one penetrating glance. The only flaw on his handsome face was a slightly crooked nose, as if it had once been broken and not healed straight. His dramatic, almost Celtic looks were emphasised by his flamboyant way of dressing—a long cape where all the other men wore wool greatcoats, a yellow satin waistcoat, tasselled boots, and jewelled rings on his fingers. Rubies and emeralds.

The duke stood there for a moment until he was certain everyone watched him, then he swung his cloak from his shoulders in a great arc and deposited it with one of the many lackeys trailing behind him. The sweep of his arm seemed to encompass and embrace all the sculptures as if they belonged to him alone.

“Ah, the glories of Greece, the ancient spirits—we meet again,” he said, softly but carryingly. Then he turned and made his way towards the metope section, his entourage hurrying behind him.

Calliope almost laughed aloud. The Duke of Averton so seldom went about in town; it was part of what made his upcoming ball the talk of the ton. But when he did it was more amusing than Drury Lane.

“Ridiculous toad,” Lord Westwood muttered darkly. “What is the purpose of such a preening display?”

Calliope glanced up at him to find him glowering towards the duke, his long fingers curled into fists. Where was the lighthearted Apollo now? Westwood resembled no one so much as the ill-tempered Hades, lurking in his black underworld, wishing he could feed the duke limb by limb to his snarling Cerberus.

Calliope had to admit she rather liked that image herself. Of all the selfish collectors in London, all the people who hoarded their treasures while denying scholars all access, Averton was the worst. He never scrupled about where or from whom he bought his treasures, and the precious objects always disappeared into his Yorkshire fortress. But she had not known that Westwood had a quarrel with him. Indeed, Westwood seldom seemed to dislike anyone—except her, of course.

Yet it was more than mere dislike she saw on his face now. It was dark, unadulterated hatred, raw and primitive. And very frightening.

Calliope shivered despite the warmth of the close-packed room, and edged away from him until she felt the hard edge of a stone base against her hips. He seemed to notice her wide-eyed regard, and that glimpse of jagged emotion was quickly concealed behind his usual smile.

“I did not realise you knew the duke well,” she murmured.

“Not well,” Lord Westwood answered. “Certainly better than I would like. We were at Cambridge together, and the Duke of Avarice has certainly not changed much since those days. Except to grow even more vicious and brainless.”

Vicious and brainless? The duke was a menace, certainly, and had a reputation for eccentricity and rapaciousness. But vicious? Calliope waited, full of anticipation, for Westwood to elaborate, but of course he did not. Their brief moment of confidence was gone, and Calliope was soon distracted by the sight of the duke drawing close to Clio.

Clio did not even seem to notice the man’s theatrical entrance, or his stately parade around the room as everyone cleared a path for him. She was leaning close to a goddess sculpture, frowning as she examined it through her spectacles. The duke, much to the consternation of his followers, suddenly veered from his trail to stop at her side.

As Calliope watched, puzzled and concerned, he edged closer to Clio until his bejewelled hand brushed her arm. Clio spun around, startled, bumping into the goddess.

“Your sister should have a care around that man,” Westwood muttered.

“I have no idea what he could be saying to her. We hardly know him.”

“That won’t stop him when it comes to ladies. Even respectable ones like your sister.”

Calliope saw Clio’s hand edging back and up, towards the sharp pin that skewered her silk bonnet. Clio’s frozen expression and demeanour never altered, yet Calliope knew she would have no compunction about driving that pin into the duke’s arm. Or more sensitive areas.

Calliope took a step forward, intending to intervene, but Lord Westwood was there before her. He strode across the room, reaching out to practically shove the duke away from Clio. As the duke smirked at him, Westwood leaned in to mutter low, harsh-sounding words that carried to Calliope’s ears as only the rushing noise of a stormy sea. Clio eased away from the men, her hand dropping to her side, as everyone else in the room edged closer. A quarrel between a duke and an earl in the middle of the British Museum was not something to be seen every day! This was certain to be much talked of for days to come.

If only she and her sister were not in the midst of it, Calliope thought, perturbed. Yet even she could not help but stare at the two men, Westwood so full of barely leashed anger, Averton still smirking but growing in agitation, if the spasmodic opening and closing of his fists was any indication. It was a scene that hardly belonged in civilised London. More like those Lapiths and centaurs, wrestling in ancient stone.

Calliope shook off the strange spell that urged her just to stare at the growing fight, and hurried to Clio’s side. She took her sister’s arm and whispered, “We should take Cory out of here, don’t you think?”

Clio shuddered, as if she too were bound by some strange, wicked enchantment and only Calliope’s voice shook her out of it. “Of course,” she said, and rushed over to where Cory still sat sketching. Clio overcame her protests with renewed promises of mummies, and ushered her out of the Elgin Room.

As soon as they departed, Westwood and Averton broke apart, Westwood striding from the room without a glance backward. The duke straightened his waistcoat and returned to his friends, laughing as if nothing had happened.

Puzzled, Calliope stared after Westwood. How very angry he seemed! And to think, for a moment there, when they smiled and talked together so easily, she had thought herself silly for imagining him the Lily Thief.

Now, after witnessing that strange scene with Averton, she was more convinced than ever that he had to be the thief. And she was determined to prove it. One way or another.